The Clock (14 page)

“No, I suppose not.
If
that's true.” He tapped the letter some more. “All right, Annie. You can go along.”

So I skedaddled out of there as fast as I could, mighty glad to be gone, and went on home.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

W
ELL
,
THERE WASN
'
T ANY WAY
I could find out what Colonel Humphreys would do about it, or even if he would do anything at all. Maybe it was like Mr. Brown had said—Colonel Humphreys was satisfied with the way Mr. Hoggart was running things, and didn't mind if, he was stealing some wool. All I could do was watch and see what happened. Who knew? We might all come to work one day and find that Mr. Hoggart was gone and we had another overseer in his place. I waited, day by day, but nothing happened.

I was thinking about this a few days later, when Tom Thrush came through the slubbing billy room with his broom. I got one look at him and my heart jumped, for his left eye was black and swollen, and there was a big bruise on his other cheek. He pretended to sweep over to me and when he got close said, “I got to talk to you. Slip out at dinnertime.”

So I did. I went on out to the slubbing room and down the stairs. Tom was waiting for me there. “He knows something,” he said.

“What happened?”

“He beat the daylights out of me last night. Somebody saw us coming across the field after we was in the cabin, and told him.”

“Did they recognize me?”

“No. Leastwise, it didn't seem like. They knew it was me, for the one who told him saw me come in all muddy that night. Maybe they don't know it was you with me.”

I felt bad, because I'd practically forced him to go to the cabin and now he'd got a beating for it. “I'm sorry, Tom. I wished I hadn't got you into such trouble.”

“It doesn't matter, Miss Annie. I been beat often enough and am used to it.” The whole thing worried me, though. Mr. Hoggart was onto something.

“What did you tell him we were doing out there?”

“Oh, something.”

That worried me. “You didn't tell him we were in the cabin, did you?”

“I wouldn't do nothing like that, Annie. I ain't that much of a fool.”

I tried to look him in the eye. “You're sure?”

“Annie, I ain't that much of a fool.”

I was good and worried, now. Had Mr. Hoggart figured out anything? There were a lot of questions I couldn't answer. But my letter to Colonel Humphreys hadn't done any good. “Tom, I think we'd better be ready to run away. There's no telling what's likely to happen. We'd better be ready to go like a shot. But I'll need some boys' clothes as quick as you can get them. Try to do it
right
away. Then we'll be ready, no matter what happens.”

The next day, just before the five o'clock bell, Tom Thrush came along with his broom and gave me a wink and a nod. Hetty couldn't miss it as she stood right next to me. “He's real uppity, now, isn't he?” she said. But I knew that he was telling me to wait till after all the girls had gone.

The five o'clock bell rang, and the noise of the machinery stopping rumbled through the mill as the boys down below disengaged the gears from the wheel. The girls put on their coats and scarves and filed out. I put on my coat and started down the stairs. Halfway down I said, “Oh, Hetty, I left my scarf behind. Go along. I'm going back for it.” She clumped on down, and I heard her footsteps go on outside. I went back into the slubbing room to wait for Tom.

Pretty soon he came in, carrying a lamp and wearing a hat with a wide brim, and walking in a funny, stiff way, like he was having trouble bending his knees.

“I got ‘em for you, Miss Annie,” he said in a low voice.

I didn't see any package. “Where?”

He took the hat off. “Here,” he said.

I swept my hair up over my head and jammed the hat on top to keep my hair hid. It felt mighty peculiar. I'd worn bonnets all my life, and wasn't used to a hat like that. “How do I look?” I said.

He squinted at me. “Well, you don't look no different to me. But I knows you. I don't doubt you'd look like a boy to somebody else.”

I went over to the windows and tried to see my reflection in them, but there was still some light outside and the glass wouldn't reflect except a little. Then I saw Mr. Hoggart down below. I jumped back from the window. I didn't think he'd seen me; I hoped he hadn't, anyway. But I decided we'd better not waste any time getting out of there. “Tom, where are the trousers?”

He pointed to his legs. “I got ‘em on underneath. I got on two pair.”

“Let me have them, quick,” I said. “I saw Mr. Hoggart going by. We must get out of here.”

“I got to strip down,” he said.

“I'll turn my back. Do it quick.” So I turned around, faced the other way, and stood there listening to the sounds of cloth sliding over cloth, and Tom grunting. “Are you almost finished?”

“Most nearly.”

Then there was a loud bang of a door, as loud as a gunshot. I jumped around. Mr. Hoggart was standing at the door. He was crouched a little, his arms out, like he was ready to leap. “What's this?” he shouted. “What's going on with you two?”

Tom ducked back, his eyes wide, his mouth open, licking his lips. He was holding the second pair of trousers in his hand. “It wasn't nothin', sir. We was just a-talkin'.”

Mr. Hoggart took two steps into the room, and swung his arm, palm open. He caught Tom on the side of his face, and Tom tumbled backward onto the floor. He twisted over onto his hands
and
knees, and looked upward at Mr. Hoggart, like a dog. “We wasn't doin' nothin', sir.”

Mr. Hoggart gave him a quick look. Then he kicked him under the ribs, flipping Tom over on his back. Tom screamed.

“Get out of here, you dirty little pig,” Mr. Hoggart shouted. “Get, before I beat the living guts out of you.”

I looked around for something to fight him off with. Leaning up against a wall was a heavy iron rod they used for levering up the machinery when they had to make repairs. I wondered if I could get to it before he grabbed me. “Please,” I said. “We weren't doing anything.”

Mr. Hoggart turned back to me, and stood in the middle of the room, looking at me. Tom was crouched on the floor behind him, holding his chest, and staring upward at Mr. Hoggart, his face all twisted up. Mr. Hoggart reached into the pocket of his coat, and took out a piece of paper, a pen, and a little flask of ink with a stopper in the top. “Now, miss,” he said. “You're going to write a little note just the way I tell you to. And if you don't, I'm going to fix you and your little friend here in a way you'll never forget.”

I didn't understand what that was all about. “Please. We weren't doing anything.”

“Oh, no,” he snarled. “Oh, no, not doing anything. Just creeping around places you don't belong in, and meddling in matters that aren't any of your business. You think I don't know who sent Colonel Humphreys that letter?”

I went cold. How had he found out? “What letter, sir? I don't know anything about any letter.”

“Don't give me that story. My good friend the footman told me it was you who brought the letter.”

I didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say.

“You're mighty quiet, aren't you? Well, I tell you, you've got good reason to be quiet. Colonel Humphreys was all set to go have a look in that shack where you were nosing around. But I got to him first, miss. Yes, I did. I told him a few things about the trouble you've made around here. He'll never believe another word you say.”

I felt sick. So that was what happened. But still, there was nothing to say.

“Now,” he said. “You're going to write a nice note saying it was all a lie.” He held out the pen.

I didn't move.

“Take it,” he said harshly. “Take it and start writing what I tell you.”

I couldn't move. I stood there frozen.

“Quickly.”

Finally I reached out and took the pen.

“Here,” he said furiously, rattling the paper. “Write what I tell you.” He laid the piece of
paper
on the top of the slubbing billy. “Quickly.” He held out the flask of ink. I took another quick look at the iron rod. He stepped toward me until his face was right in mine. “Take it,” he shouted. He pushed the flask of ink into my hand. “Now, write. Say, ‘It was all a lie about there being wool in the cabin.' ”

I took the pen, and dipped it into the ink. But I couldn't start writing. My hand just wouldn't move.

“Write it,” he shouted. “ ‘It was all a lie about there being wool in the cabin. I made it up to get revenge for Robert's death.' Write that.”

The picture of Robert's limp body, with his bones all broken, his foot twisted around backward, and the water freezing on his face came into my mind. “I can't,” I whispered. “Not after what you did to Robert.” The pen dropped out of my fingers.

He grabbed me by the front of my gown, jerked me toward him, and slammed me on the side of my head. I went dizzy and started to lose track of things. “Write it,” he shouted. He bent down, scooped up the pen, and shoved it into my hand, and closed my fingers around it.

I was still feeling dizzy, but I shook my head. He began to shake me back and forth, and then he raised his hand to smack me again. I didn't know where I was anymore. I heard myself shouting, “Help, help!” He hit me on the mouth and I tasted blood. Still holding the front of my gown, he pulled his arm back and I tried to cry out, but no sound came.

And just then there came a thump, like a rock dropping on another rock. Mr. Hoggart's hand came off my gown, and he fell backward onto the floor. Standing behind him, his breath coming and going fast as a machine, was Tom. He had the iron rod raised up over Mr. Hoggart.

Mr. Hoggart was lying on his back, his arms flung out to the sides. There was a bloody patch on the side of his head. He was breathing loud, his eyes closed.

“Don't hit him again, Tom,” I shouted. “You'll kill him.”

“I aim to, Miss Annie.”

“No,” I shouted. He lowered the rod so one end was resting on the ground, but he kept it ready in case Mr. Hoggart suddenly came out of it. I knelt down beside him and felt his heart. It was going mighty quick, but it was going. Then, suddenly, I thought of something: Maybe he had the key to the shack in his pocket. I didn't like touching him any more than I had to, but there wasn't any help for it. I slid my hand in one of his trouser pockets. There was nothing there but a handkerchief.

“You looking for his money?” Tom said.

“No. The key. I wouldn't touch his money.” I slid my hand in his other pocket. There was stuff in it.

“Well, if you ain't going to touch it, I don't suppose you'd mind if I done it, then. It ain't often I get the chance to touch any.”

I
closed my fingers, pulled the stuff out, and dumped it on the ground. There was a small folding knife, a handful of coins, and a key. My heart jumped. “This has to be it, Tom. Come on, let's go.” I leapt up, and as I did so Tom dove down, and snatched up the coins and the knife.

“Tom, we shouldn't steal.”

“Oh, I wouldn't think of it. But somebody else mightn't be so reliable, and would make off with them coins. So it would be for the best if I hung onto them for safekeeping.” And he jammed the coins into his pocket.

Then we raced on out of there and down the long flight of stairs. When we reached the bottom I started off for the snowy field, heading for the woods. And I hadn't got more than three steps when I realized Tom wasn't following me. I stopped and looked back. Tom was standing at the bottom of the steps, looking after me. “Come on, Tom,” I shouted.

He stood there for a moment, and then he shook his head. “No, Miss Annie,” he said. “I had about enough of that old shack. I had about enough of this here mill too. I think I'm just going to go on down the road as quick as I can, before Mr. Hoggart wakes up. For he's bound to kill me if he catches me. I've got a few shillings in my pocket now, and that'll get me on a boat back down to New York. So, if you don't mind, I'll just say good-bye.”

Well, he was right. No matter what the outcome, Mr. Hoggart was bound to beat the whey out of Tom when he came around, and kill him like as not. I jumped back over to him, and gave him a little hug. Then I said, “You'd better get going, Tom, before he wakes up.”

“If you ever get to New York, look me up. I'll be on the dock somewhere, like as not.” Then he turned, and hobbled off as fast as he could, with his sore ribs.

I didn't wait to see him go, but turned and ran across the snowy field, now all chopped up with tracks, and into the woods. I charged through the woods as fast as I could go, until I came to the cabin. Quickly I slipped the key in the lock and unsnapped it. I took the lock off the door, and shoved it in my pocket. Then I opened the door, and looked in. It was pretty dark inside, but I didn't have any trouble making out the bags of wool, a couple of dozen of them. I shut the door, and then I began to run through the woods, across the snowy field, past the mill, and down the mill road.

When I came to the village road I turned to look around. There was still no sign of Mr. Hoggart. But he'd be on his feet again pretty soon. All I could do was hope he didn't head for the cabin right away. He'd go back to his house and fix himself up first. Or maybe head for a doctor, to sew him up. Even if he did go out to the cabin, it would take him a while to get the wool out of there. He'd have to harness a horse to a wagon, drag the wool from the cabin to the edge of the woods, and load the wagon.

And he wouldn't want to do that in broad daylight, either. He'd wait until nightfall. So I had some time.

I turned onto the village road, and trotted along it until I came to our farm lane. I turned
down
it; but instead of heading on home, I jumped over the stone wall into the field where the merino ram was grazing, and headed out for the woodlot. In about five minutes I began to hear the sound of George's bucksaw, going
zizz, zizz, zizz,
as steady as anything. I reached the woodlot; there, a little way in, was George, in the middle of a clearing with stumps all around him, and a big pile of firewood in a heap behind him. He was bent over a log, pulling the saw, and didn't hear me come up until I was right next to him. Then he stopped sawing and straightened up. “Annie? What are you doing here?” Then he looked at my face. “What on earth happened to you?”